


put the sun back

by ataxophilia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Character Death, beverly's father dies and she goes to will for comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:11:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ataxophilia/pseuds/ataxophilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She looks wrong on his front porch in the rain, her shoulders curled over as though she’s trying to fold herself into nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	put the sun back

**Author's Note:**

> (Sticks with my headcanon that Beverly is adopted.)
> 
> Unbeta'd.

It’s raining when Will gets home, the kind of rain that traps people indoors with cabin fever for days on end, cold and heavy and relentless. It’s raining, and the sky is an ominous grey above Will’s head, and Beverly is sat on his front porch with her collar pulled up around her chin and her hair plastered to her face.

She looks up as Will picks his way down the front path towards her, squinting into the downpour, her mouth tugging up into something that would be a smile if there was any humour in it. “Hey,” she says, and Will can hear the tiredness in her voice, can see it painted in her eyes once he gets close enough.

"Hey," he replies, coming to a standstill just in front of her. His fingers clench instinctively by his sides; she’s thrown him off balance by being here without warning. "What are you doing here?"

He doesn’t mean for it to come out rude, but that’s how it sounds, hanging in the air between them like a brick wall.  _Why are you here?_  Beverly’s not-smile falters and then crumples completely, and she drops her gaze back down to the floor. That’s wrong, too - it should be Will avoiding eye-contact, not Beverly, not loud, vivacious Beverly, who Will has never seen back down or give in.

"I, uh- I just got some bad news," she explains, eyes fixed on the dirt by Will’s feet. Will shifts his weight awkwardly, unsure how to respond. "Needed to get out of my apartment. Figured here was as good a place as any."

This isn’t the first time Beverly has turned up unannounced, but she usually arrives on their days off, mid morning, laden with breakfast goods and sunny smiles. Sometimes she kisses him, mouth sweet with pastry and jam, fingers sticky on his cheeks; sometimes she pulls him upstairs and fucks him into the sheets, laughing as he runs his hands over her body. Sometimes she sits him down in the kitchen and talks to him over fresh coffees, her whole face alight with her stories.

She is always bright, always cheerful. That’s what she does, Will thinks, she makes people happy with her own happiness. She fixes people by making them laugh again.

She looks wrong on his front porch in the rain, her shoulders curled over as though she’s trying to fold herself into nothing. Will recognises the pose - he’s forced himself into it enough times, attempting to ground himself with his own body - but it doesn’t fit with the image of Beverly he has in his mind.

"What news?" he asks, unused to being on this side of comforting. It’s the wrong thing to say, he knows that as soon as he says it, but he can’t take the question back.

There’s a pause as Beverly swallows quietly and Will shifts his weight again, and then Beverly looks back up at him and says, “You’re pretty crap at this, aren’t you?”

Thank god, Will thinks, and sits down next to her when she pats the porch by her side. “I’m not so good at the whole…” he trails off, waving aimlessly.

"Consoling?" Beverly supplies, with enough of her usual spark in her voice that Will lets himself relax a little, glancing up to grant her a brief smile.

"Yeah," he agrees, and a matching smile flickers across Beverly’s lips. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She purses her lips as she considers the offer, studying Will’s face like she’ll find her answer there. Will thinks,  _why would she want to talk to me?_  but she exhales shakily and leans her weight into his shoulder before he can get any further with that chain of doubt.

"My dad died," she tells him, looking back out at the rain instead of at Will.

All Will can think of to say is, “Oh.” He’s heard stories about Beverly’s dad; he knows about the way he eats everything with ketchup, and about the trips he used to take Beverly on when she was a kid, out into the countryside to see the stars. He knows that Beverly loved her dad something fierce, even if he wasn’t hers biologically, even if he was pale and blonde where she is dark.

"He’d been ill for a while," she adds, her hands twisting together in her lap. "Lung cancer. Too many cigarettes." She laughs as she says it, but it sounds more like a sob. Will thinks about the way she holds his shoulders and talks him down when he freaks at crime scenes, and reaches across to catch one of her hands, to twine their fingers together.

It helps, he knows. Having something to hold onto.

"I just," she starts, breaks off. Will tightens his grip on her hand, leans back against her.  _I’m here_ , he wants to say.  _You’re not alone_.

"I don’t know what to do without him. He was always- there, always ready to talk, and now he’s- he’s not. I won’t ever be able to call home and ask him for advice again. I don’t know- I don’t know how to deal with that."

She’s crying, Will realises, her cheeks wet with tears. He’s never seen her cry before. It makes him want to hide her away some place safe and let her stay there until the world doesn’t hurt as much.

He still doesn’t know what to say, though, so he squeezes her hand and lifts it up to her face. “Do you want to go inside?” he asks, running a knuckle over her cheekbone. “I’ll make coffee and we can talk about your dad.”

Beverly’s laugh comes out a little choked, but her eyes are warmer when she nods. “I’m making the coffee, though,” she says, letting him help her to her feet. “You always burn it.”

Will smiles, softer than he’s used to, steady because this time he has to be the strong one, he’s got to be her rock now. They’re both soaked through from the rain, they’ll probably be sick by the end of the week, but Beverly keeps her fingers tangled with Will’s as he fumbles with his key and pushes the door open, and when they’re inside she presses her shoulder against his and murmurs, “Thank you,” before slipping away into the kitchen, and Will thinks it’s worth the inevitable flu if he can get Beverly to smile again.


End file.
